


Answering Machine Blues

by akamine_chan



Category: Hard Core Logo
Genre: Community: ds_snippets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The answering machine flashes accusingly at him when he gets home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answering Machine Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LiveJournal community ds_snippets.
> 
> Many thanks to the awesome duo of beta goodness : Meresy and Dugrival. They did the best they could; any remaining mistakes are mine, of course. This one is for Keerawa, my lovely sister-in-angst.
> 
> Prompt: trying

When Billy gets home, the answering machine's little red light is flashing—flashing—flashing. He frowns at it. He's rarely home, so most people call his cell if they want to talk to him; few know this number.

It's been a long day spent at the studio, working with the band, cutting tracks for the new album, then putting the finishing touches on a couple of his own tracks after hours. It feels like maybe the music's finally come back to him. It's been forever since it's felt this natural, this good.

Part of the price of being a sell-out, he figures. He's sure that's what Joe would say.

He pushes the button on the machine. "Billiam."

Billy jabs at the pause button and spends a moment just breathing. His hand is shaking but he ignores it and lights a cigarette, exhaling angrily.

He hits 'play' and listens to Joe's whiskey-rough voice, wishing it didn't shiver down his spine like a phantom touch.

"Billiam." There's a muted clink, and the sound of Joe swigging straight from the bottle. It's most likely the cheapest scotch that money can buy. "I'm trying, you fuck, but it's so hard without you." Joe laughs bitterly.

Billy echoes the laugh, tasting the hostility in his voice. "Fuck you, Joe." Joe might be drunk, but Billy remembers that last night—the hateful accusations, the arguing, the hard punch Joe had landed on his jaw.

There's a drawn-in breath that borders on a sob. "Miss you," Joe whispers before hanging up.

Billy stands there, guitar case at his feet, rubbing his face tiredly and listening to the machine click off.

-fin-


End file.
